It’s 3am in the city and I’m alone,
        in my apartment. 
  I don’t feel anything like a monster, 
                  but when I look in the mirror 
            the shadow just won’t go away and 
                   I can’t deny the way my soul splits right in two 
        the moment I look through the glass.
   My heart feels too powerful and the 
                clutch in my throat won’t let me breathe
                    without endless whispers of
          I’m frightened to move, 
                     but soon my hands are tighter
                                          than they’ve ever been
                                                        around the plastic bottle that shouldn’t 
                                                                                         have been there at all. 
     First there’s a spark,
          then there’s light, 
      then I’m ten metres off the ground watching you tell me how 
                      art doesn’t mean I can kill myself. 
      But isn’t that what art is; 
                 a long, slow, played out death? 
   Bukowski never seemed alive to me, 
             so where’s my prostitute and 
                        freedom to drink, 
   or is it different when you think 
                         of me 
            because I’m somehow smaller 
                                           – more aware. 
   Or maybe it’s the awareness 
                 that drove me forward and 
                           maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m anything
             other than a shitty poem that empties the pockets
                                                                    of dreamers. 

Published by Charlotte Griffiths